


Golden Frame

by Zetaori



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetaori/pseuds/Zetaori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, in front of a mirror. Eames, behind him, talks him through. Their eyes meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Frame

**Author's Note:**

> written for this inception_kink [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/9327.html?thread=16671343#t16671343)
> 
> If you want to read/comment on LJ, you can find the story [here](http://zetaori.livejournal.com/7716.html).

"So you're like, what? The Master of Masturbation?"

Arthur sits up and pulls back his hand, folding his arms in front of his chest. His brow furrows. He can't remember how his head ended up on Eames' shoulder, and he has no idea why they were holding hands. But obviously, it happened. Again.

"Of course not," Eames says modestly, but Arthur doesn't buy it for one second. "I'm just very good at what I do."

"What you do," Arthur echoes weakly.

Eames moves out of this weird, cuddling position they found themselves in. For a few seconds, they both look silently at the TV where countless soldiers die in an explosion in some Jerry Bruckheimer movie. Arthur hasn't been paying attention to the plot up to now, and he's never seen this movie, so he has no idea what's going on.

"Arthur," Eames says softly. Arthur keeps his eyes fixed on the screen because he can hear the smile in Eames' voice, and he knows that as soon as he looks at that, he'll forget why he's angry.

"I could teach you, you know," Eames says.

Arthur snaps his head around at that, and he scans Eames' face in confusion because this should be a joke, this should be mocking and teasing, but instead for a second he had the impression that it might be possible that Eames is totally serious. And, for some unknown reason that Arthur doesn't even want to think about, turned on.

Eames meets his gaze with a blank face, only one eyebrow raised quizzically, but Arthur isn't one to give up quickly.

He just keeps on staring, and under the careful and intense scrutiny of his eyes, Eames' lips part slightly, and there is this very faint hint of color on his cheekbones, creeping up from where it's been invisible under the dense stubble on his cheek, spreading towards his nose.

Arthur resists the urge to probe it.

"Eames?" he asks tentatively.

"Yeah?" Eames is apparently trying to sound unabashed, but his voice is a little bit too high. Just a tiny key off. A semitone. A quarter tone.

Arthur thinks about the violin exercise he couldn't finish because Eames turned up on his threshold, literally _leaning_ on the doorbell until Arthur had to snap his violin case shut with a sigh and open the door to Eames storming into his apartment, into his routine, into his life. Again.

Arthur shakes his head to get his focus back. "What is this?"

"What is what?" Eames shifts on the couch. Arthur doesn't have to look down to realize what's going on.

Arthur leans in until he can feel Eames' breath on his face, and it's fast and shallow and hot.

"Your offer? And, more importantly, you being turned on like hell by it?"

"Oh, that." Eames raises one hand to let it run through his short hair and rub down over his face. When he drops his hand again, his smug grin is back in place. "I just want to share my knowledge, that's all. Spread the love, you know?"

"Spread the love?" Arthur repeats, incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"Okay," Eames says quickly, and holds up his hands in defeat. "If you can't appreciate it..."

"It? Appreciate what?" Arthur doesn't like how his voice sounds, loud and shrill in his own ears.

"My skills."

At this point, Arthur starts to laugh, humorless and borderline panicky, but he can't seem to stop. "Your masturbation skills." His laugh subsides into pained coughs.

Eames bends forward to snatch the TV remote, and presses the mute button. The constant roar of dialogue shouted over exploding buildings and people is suddenly dead, and Arthur has to look at the screen to reassure himself the war is still going on there.

Arthur tries to remember what he had been watching before Eames leaped easily over the back of his couch, fell down with a loud thud and picked up the TV remote. Arthur hadn't even closed the door behind him. Or invited him in.

But then Eames slides in closer, his left hand cupping Arthur's right hand that rests on his thigh, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly unable to feel anything besides Eames' warmth. He remembers that, remembers how it felt to have Eames' whole warm body pressed flush against his back, one hand over his own, the other burning into his hipbone.

Arthur is pulled out of his memories by a gentle nudge under his chin that forces him to look up.

"Please?"

Arthur has never heard Eames like that. Actually, he's never heard Eames say _please_. He can feel his blood rush out of his face, leaving him pale and cold, and he tries to take a deep breath that turns into a choke when his windpipe suddenly closes down.

"Excuse me," he says and darts away into the bathroom.

With his hands gripping the sink so hard his knuckles turn white, he's finally able to breathe and calm down. He takes his time, soaps his hand and face, letting water drip down from his forehead over his eyes back into the sink, concentrating on nothing else.

He knows it's stupid. Pretty much everything Eames says is stupid and inappropriate and he should just ignore it and throw him out. But under all his annoyance and anger, he's terribly turned on and doesn't know why, or what to do with it.

One hand slides into the pocket of his pants to feel the reassuring weight and form of his die. He doesn't need to check, but he curls his fingers around it and counts slowly to ten.

"So you were saying," Arthur says as he calmly strolls back into the living room.

Eames has turned on the volume again, but his eyes are unfocused. He doesn't look at Arthur when he sits down next to him.

"I was saying," Eames answers, his voice starting off neutral, but darting back into the slightly amused and a lot more seductive tone Arthur has come to know as the harbinger of either complete disaster or perfect success, "that I'd be honored to show you how to get yourself off properly."

"Everyone knows that," Arthur replies, after the short pause he needs to get his thoughts together.

"Some know it better."

Arthur knows he should argue with that. He should snort and mock him, and maybe he should even press a gun to Eames' temple.

But damn. He's curious.

Arthur hates his curiosity. Curiosity made him get drunk and stay and smile when Eames started shifting closer and closer. Then he found himself in the middle of a conversation that became impossible to control and steered itself with unerring determination towards something Arthur was sure he would have stopped if he still had something like self-control left. But he soon realized he was unable to resist the soft innuendos and temptations whispered in his ear, and Eames was not exactly helpful.

Curiosity made him follow Eames back into his apartment, suddenly needing Eames' hands and mouth all over his body so badly, and out of curiosity he let himself be pushed down and, well, fucked, but only once, and when he was sober again and woke up to the smell of coffee, he stumbled out with half of his clothes left behind, and swore, never again. (Eames brought the rest of his clothes, neatly folded, into the warehouse the next day and laid them out on Arthur's desk just to make sure everybody saw them, but to be honest Arthur was only relieved to get his cuff links back).

And now curiosity makes him catch and hold Eames' gaze, slacken his tie slowly, and shift closer. "Yeah?"

Eames swallows visibly. "Yeah."

"So you want to teach me?"

"I could."

"Will you?" Arthur presses on.

Eames considers for a few seconds, his eyes narrowed as if he were unsure whether Arthur was going to snap his neck any second, but then he smiles, all teeth and crinkling skin. "Sure. Everything for you, my dear."

After that, Arthur doesn't know what to say and stares at the screen instead, but the scene is dark. There's only the reflection of Eames' neck and upper chest where a patch of skin is exposed by an open button.

"Come on, then," Eames says, sounding incredibly pleased with himself.

"Okay." Arthur gets up, suddenly painfully aware of all his movements. He tries to look unimpressed, but he doesn't know what to do with his hands.

He can hear Eames' footsteps behind him, soft and predatory.

Arthur plans on letting his hand slide around the corner when he turns off to his bedroom, but Eames catches him before any sliding can happen.

"What are you doing?" Arthur says and tries to shake him off, but Eames tightens his grip around his wrist.

"Wait," Eames says, his voice dark and impossible to read. "Stay here."

Arthur wants to protest, ask him why he should be standing around in his hallway, but then Eames lets his grip move upwards to his shoulders, and turns him around.

And suddenly, Arthur understands.

He looks into brown eyes, wide in astonishment, a forehead knitted in worry, a mouth slightly opened to release warm irregular puffs of breath that fog his vision.

He sees flushed cheeks, slightly tousled hair and a crooked tie.

He's standing in front of his huge, body-length, gold-framed mirror.

"Look at yourself," Eames whispers into his ear, his chin resting on his shoulder, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

Arthur looks.

He thinks that this is what they would look like on photographs, in a golden frame on a cupboard. Only then they would be beaming on a balcony somewhere in Italy or Spain. They would have tans, Arthur would be wearing only a t-shirt and shorts, and Eames would have sunglasses dangling in the deep neckline.

But now, Arthur wears shoes, long pants, a waistcoat, a shirt and a tie, and he isn't smiling. Eames isn't smiling either.

"Look at yourself," Eames repeats, just a hint of air over his ear.

Arthur looks.

He lets his gaze wander over his body like he's seeing it for the first time. He takes in the slender neck, the soft curve of his shoulders, the shirt fitting tight over his chest, a small leather belt, and then there's this bulge in the pants.

"This mirror," Eames purrs before backing off, disappearing somewhere in the living room, his voice growing louder and louder over the distance, eventually almost shouting against the heavy artillery from the TV, "is there to help you. You can see what you're doing, and that helps you to learn and remember."

Arthur is frozen in front of the mirror, watching Eames pull out a chair from underneath the table, dragging it all the way to the hallway. He leaves the door to the living room open, and Arthur can see about half of the TV screen in the mirror where soldiers seem to be sitting around and talking.

The chair makes the unpleasant screeching sound of wood being scratched on expensive parquet, but Arthur's head is full of other, more pressing matters.

For example the way Eames finally sits down behind him, slouching in the chair as if he were at home, his legs spread apart. He stretches his arms over his head, which makes his shirt slide out of his pants almost by accident, and then one hand rubs absentmindedly over his chest.

Arthur stares at the crinkled shirt, following the movements of Eames' hand until it drops lazily on his lap, and then he looks up into Eames' eyes.

"So the mirror is solely there for my learning experience," Arthur says slowly. He watches his own smile starting in the eyes and making its way down to his lips.

"Let's say _mostly_ ," Eames answers. "Now why don't you take off that beautiful waistcoat. We'd hate to have anything happen to it."

"Why should anything happen to it?" Arthur asks as he starts to open the buttons.

"Just take it off, will you?" Eames says, not smiling back.

Arthur shrugs out of it, debating if he could get away with darting off into the bedroom to put in on a hanger when Eames holds out one hand. "Give it to me."

Arthur obliges, and watches Eames fold it and put it down on the floor carefully.

"What now?" Arthur says, a bit nervous. He avoids looking at Eames and himself and instead focuses on the intricate pattern of the frame. He doesn't want to be naked in front of Eames, not again, and he doesn't want to be naked in front of his own mirror in his own hallway.

"Just," Eames starts, and clears his throat. "You should show me what you usually do. For starters."

"You want me to undress?"

"Whatever you like," Eames says, his voice a soft murmur somewhere at his back.

Okay, Arthur thinks, and takes a deep breath. He blanks out everything except the feeling of the buttons of his shirt against his fingertips as he opens them one after the other. He knows Eames is burning a hole into the mirror with his gaze, and he can nearly feel the heat reflected on his chest when he opens the last button and spreads the shirt a little bit, just over his nipples.

He slackens his tie further, but keeps it on, letting his hand run over it soothingly. The soft silk feels good against his skin. It helps against the heat and tingling and nakedness.

He gazes up just in time to see Eames' eyes fixed on his movement, see him running his tongue over his bottom lip where a second ago his teeth have bitten down.

Arthur busies his hands with his belt and the buttons of his pants, and hisses when his hands touch his erection through the soft fabric. His gaze darts upwards to meet Eames' eyes in the mirror, not sure what he's looking for. Maybe a condescending chuckle, or a frown, because somehow Arthur is embarrassed by this noise and feels caught.

Instead, Eames' eyes are wide and unblinkingly fixed on his crotch.

Arthur remembers that he's allowed to do what he wants, and what he really wants is to give in to the urge to touch himself. So he just presses the palm of his hand there, a small sound escaping his lips, and feels himself rock against his hand only so slightly.

"Um," Eames says suddenly. "What are you doing?"

Arthur's first impulse is to tell him to shut up, but suddenly his cock jerks into the pressure of the heel of his hand, and he groans involuntarily.

"I'm," Arthur says and doesn't know how to finish the sentence without sounding stupid, and instead he just opens his pants, shoves them down together with his underwear, only as far as necessary to take himself out.

The moment his hand closes around his cock, he sighs in relief and just holds it. After a few calming breaths, he shifts around to spread his legs for better access and balance, his pants caught somewhere mid-thigh and fortunately staying there.

Arthur's gaze is fixed somewhere at the reflection of the wall, not really looking but not wanting to close his eyes either.

He knows Eames is watching him.

"It's not like you haven't seen that before," Arthur manages to get out, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Yeah," Eames says hoarsely, rubbing over his face again. "But not like this."

Arthur smiles, but the first careful, reluctant pulls bring back a sudden, unexpected burst of memory. He remembers the first time he ever did this, hidden under his sheets, full of panic and confusion and his damn curiosity. And the feeling of being watched, it's so different and completely the same.

The thing is, he hasn't done it properly in years. It's just too much work and never enough time. It's always just necessary and quick releases without much thought, or wet dreams he doesn't remember afterward.

Of course he hasn't told Eames, but with what they do, it is hard to keep anything secret. They spend their days strolling around in each other's subconsciousness, and if anyone wants to know something, he'll know it.

So all Arthur can think about as he moves his fist back and forth, only tiny strokes, small flicks of his wrist, is how much Eames really knows about him.

The thought keeps swirling in his mind, making his movements uncoordinated, erratic, unsatisfying. He sighs in frustration and closes his eyes, trying to concentrate, but it's just not helping.

And then he hears the rustling of clothes and there is a hand on his, ghosting over his fingers until it settles on top of his hand, dry and warm.

Eames makes a soothing noise in his ear, tightens his grip only slightly and starts to move his hand. Arthur whimpers at the rhythmic, level pace, because of course it's nothing but perfectly right.

"Open your eyes," Eames says, and Arthur looks down, looks at Eames' hand, which he's seen before but never _like this_ , and looks at the few inches of skin peeking through the grip.

"No," Eames says. "Look in the mirror."

Arthur looks. Eames stands behind him, barely visible, and he's not touching him anywhere except on his hand. And Arthur looks at that.

His cock is hard, arching upwards into the touch and from this unusual angle, it looks bigger and strange.

"Just like that," Eames purrs, and Arthur isn't sure if Eames means him looking in the mirror or the movements he's adapted now.

Eames peels away one finger after the other, carefully easing his grip until he finally lets go again, and Arthur's hand stutters for a few heartbeats until he's able to settle back into the pace Eames has set for him.

Eames stays behind him for a few seconds, maybe to make sure that Arthur manages on his own, and then he falls back on his chair. Arthur focuses on the way the skin moves under his hand, trying to memorize every detail because it may have been a long time since he's really paid attention, but he's sure it's never felt so good before and he doesn't want to forget any second of it.

He loses track of time, his eyes just fixed on himself, every other sound drowning in the rush of blood in his ears, but it's just that sweet constant pleasure and he wants more.

He raises his eyes to meet Eames'.

"Just vary the pressure and pace," Eames responds to Arthur's silent plea for help.

"I know that," Arthur presses out.

"Of course you do," Eames says without really listening.

Arthur stills his movements and catches his breath.

"Eames?" he asks slowly, keeping his voice steady.

"Yes?"

"Are you still watching this movie?"

Eames' eyes dart back to him. "No."

"I can see you watching the movie," Arthur says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips against his will.

"Okay, maybe," Eames gives in. "But just because you keep doing the same thing and you looked so happy with it I didn't want to interrupt."

"That's very… thoughtful," Arthur says and wishes this conversation wouldn't take place while he's holding his dick in his hand.

"I'll stop watching if you entertain me better," Eames says.

Okay, Arthur thinks. Okay. He gives himself one hard, fast stroke, squeezing down and stilling his hand at the base, and then doing it all over again. He keeps his eyes fixed on Eames, smiling involuntarily when he sees him shifting around in his chair.

"Okay, okay," Eames groans and holds up his hands in mock surrender, staring at Arthur's hand.

Arthur bucks into his grip and a wave of pleasure rushes through him.

"What now?" Arthur pants, his voice dropping lower over the two syllables.

"Close your eyes," Eames says, matching Arthur's slow, dark tone. "Concentrate on the feeling. Listen to your body."

Arthur tries, but there is just this confusing raw need pulsing behind his eyelids.

Eames' voice floats over the tumbling chaos. "Now you have to think of someone. Imagine something. Where you'd like to be, with whom, what you would like to do most with them."

Arthur swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and then he opens his eyes. He looks on his own lips, parted in the desperate need for oxygen. Then he looks up to see Eames' gaze burning over Arthur's exposed chest where a blush is blooming around his nipples, down towards his moving hand and then back into his face, just in time to catch the short, almost shy smile flicker there.

And suddenly Eames is out of his chair again, his hands hovering over Arthur's sides, until he finally takes hold of his waist, his thumbs brushing over his hipbones, digging into the hollow spots over them.

"Just," Eames says, right next to his ear, "tilt your hips like that." His hands gently move him into the position, and Arthur groans and quickens his pace involuntarily.

It's suddenly so good he can feel his knees weaken, and he's glad that Eames' hands are around him. Little drops of precum form on the tip of his cock, and Eames just reaches around nonchalantly and, being careful not to disturb the movements of Arthur's fist, he spreads the liquid around the head with his thumb.

Arthur tumbles forward and reaches out just in time to support himself on the wall with one clenched fist. He's bent over now, his left hand resting next to the mirror, his right hand still working, his head thrown back and his hips bucking involuntarily. He's probably also putting his naked ass on nice display, but he can't bring himself to care.

After a few seconds of careful observation, Eames sits back on his chair, and Arthur can see his erection clearly straining against his wide pants.

Arthur spreads his legs further, moving his hips in earnest now, his hand sliding up and down in desperate search for just the right spot, the perfect motion, the ideal pressure.

In one moment of inspiration, Arthur bows down his head, his eyes gliding over his exposed chest, and he watches his hand and hopes Eames is watching too because he feels so fucking beautiful right now.

Eames is out of his chair again, apparently not able to sit still, and Arthur bites down on his lip, breathing fast and noisy through his nose when he feels his presence right behind him again.

"That's so good," Eames says, his voice tinted with need. "You're doing so well."

Arthur rocks closer and closer, his movements once again out of rhythm, and as if on cue, Eames takes hold of his head, one finger after the other, and helps him get back into the right pace.

Arthur can feel himself pushing back, desperate for some touch, any contact. Eames doesn't waste one second and takes one full step forward, effectively bringing their bodies together.

Arthur makes a choked noise deep down in his throat, and Eames' free left hand forms a ring around the base of his cock.

Arthur can feel a tingling sensation deep behind his balls, and he thinks about how good it would feel to come right now. He longs for the sudden rush of arousal flooding through his veins, blackening out his senses until all he can feel is a shuddering frantic pounding all over his body and his hand covered in hot liquid.

Eames' fingers tighten suddenly, closing the ring around his cock and at the same time he stills the movements of Arthur's hand with his right one.

"Don't come yet," Eames says. Arthur groans in frustration and rocks back against Eames' warm body. His pupils are huge and dark when he looks into his own eyes, and Eames just smiles at the obvious desperation written on Arthur's face.

"Just wait a little bit," Eames chimes, his hand setting a slow, teasing rhythm and Arthur follows it willingly.

"That's good," Eames whispers, moving even closer, and Arthur can feel goosebumps raising all over his body when Eames' stubble accidentally glides over the soft skin on his face.

"You like that?" Eames teases, and Arthur can only gasp in response.

Eames does it again, this time liberally and extensively, rubbing his cheek against Arthur's cheek and neck until Arthur's skin feels red, swollen and raw.

With every stroke of both their hands, Arthur shudders and gasps a little bit. He's so close the whole time, slithering on the edge, always afraid of and at the same time wanting nothing more than the final fall. His hips rock forward towards nothingness, and he thinks he has to come any second now, but Eames' grip around his cock is a constant pressure of promise and denial. It hurts so good and it's never enough, and when Arthur thinks he finally can't take it anymore, he has to finish this now or break and die, Eames notices the change and increases the pace of his hand.

The movement becomes more frantic, more uncoordinated, and so it happens that occasionally one finger or a part of Eames' palm actually touches him, and the dry warmth feels so much better than it really should.

Arthur forces himself to blink, and with the ban broken, he can finally look away from the deep red color of his cock and stare at another point in the mirror. He catches the reflection of the TV and tries to focus on the shouting and screaming, but although he knows the volume is up, he can't hear a single thing over the fast, desperate sobs and gasps he seems to be making all the time.

He tries to groan in frustration, but suddenly there doesn't seem to be enough oxygen in his body to breathe out, so he just gasps and makes a choked, desperate sound at the back of his throat.

His eyes shoot back to Eames' reassuring smile.

"You're so close, aren't you," Eames says, and Arthur's hips buck. "And right now you can't hear anything except your blood pounding in your ears and your shallow gasps."

Arthur wants to say that this isn't true, because he can also hear Eames' voice, and it shoots straight down his spine and curls warm and tickling in his stomach, but then Eames flicks his wrist, brushing over his head and at the same time somehow pulling down. Arthur hears himself make a soft, wailing noise that sounds strange and unfamiliar, and all he can think about is that he wants more.

Arthur loses his balance when he tries to push forward into the teasing, soft touch in the inelegant attempt to just take what he needs so desperately, but Eames catches him and keeps on talking.

"And when you close your eyes, all you can see is red red _red_."

Arthur forces his eyes shut against the sight of Eames' lips forming the word _red_ , and behind his eyelids, there are little bursts of crimson over a background of scarlet with streaks of gold,  remnants from the frame that's been edging on his vision this whole time, etching itself into his retina. When he opens his eyes again, carmine shadows still paint his vision, but no matter how much he blinks, his skin keeps looking flushed and hot.

"And when you open your eyes again, you just can't look away from the sight of your cock, all hard and flushed and so _full_."

Eames emphasizes his remarks with almost painful strokes that make Arthur tighten his fist on the wall.

Arthur looks down to see rather than feel Eames easing the relentless grip around the base of his cock, loosening his fingers until they just ghost over the pounding veins.

"And all you can think about is _this_ ," Eames whispers, squeezing Arthur's moving hand with his right one, before he suddenly lets go.

The loss of Eames' hands around him is unexpected and confusing, but when he realizes this is the signal to finally go for it, Arthur is dangerously close within seconds, the speed and pressure nearly too much to stand, and that's when Eames' hands return. They hover patiently over his hands before finally sliding under.

Arthur stares with wide eyes when Eames cups his balls in the palm of one hand, stroking them carefully, while his other hand moves further, his fingers brushing his perineum, circling his hole, one finger dipping in just to stroke the tight ring of muscle, and then back.

Suddenly, Eames' mouth is on his ear and his body presses closer against Arthur's, pushing him almost over with his whole weight, and then Arthur can feel Eames' erection through his pants, hard and heavy against his cheeks, and Eames whispers, "And then it feels so good it hurts."

Arthur shoves himself back helplessly, just wanting to feel Eames, wanting to have Eames right there and more, until he can feel Eames' cock rubbing between his cheeks, hot and pounding against him.

"God, Arthur," Eames groans, and with that, Arthur pushes his forehead on his arm and finally comes.

The orgasm is sudden and intense, a spike of lust that drowns out the whole world, and it goes on for second after second with Eames' fingers everywhere, pushing at all the right places, places he didn't know he has, and Eames' cock pressed against his ass, his hips rocking and moving against him, teasing out wave after wave.

Arthur can hear himself moaning, strange sounds of pleasure subsiding into tiny whimpers of despair when Eames keeps on squeezing out the last shudders of his orgasm.

When he finally collapses, his head lolls back to rest on Eames' shoulder and his hips are still bucking involuntary against Eames' and his own hand.

Eames keeps him upright when his body tries to give up. Slowly, the sounds from the TV surge back into his consciousness, and he wonders how he ever managed to concentrate over all this noise.

He looks at himself, his cock a dark shade of red and intriguingly wet, and at Eames' sullied hand that keeps stroking tenderly over the sensitive skin. His chest and face are flushed as if he ran for hours.

It's only then that Arthur looks at Eames' face. His cock jerks one last, desperate time when he sees Eames' tongue dart out to lick over his chapped lips. He can feel Eames' breath hot and fast on his shoulder, and Eames' pupils are so wide he can barely make out any other color.

Sweat clings to Eames' forehead and makes a few streaks of hair that have become undone stick there in tiny curls.

Eames is completely still and lets Arthur stare at him for long minutes. Arthur realizes he's weirdly comfortable like this, half-exposed, his naked ass pressed against the outlines of Eames' cock in his pants, right in the middle of his hallway.

Eames presses his nose against Arthur's jaw, his lips hovering over the red rash from his stubble. Another picture to take and frame and remember, Arthur thinks.

"You know what?" Eames says quietly, still holding him, his lips ghosting over his ear.

"What?" Arthur replies weakly.

"I'll clean the mirror for you."

Arthur looks at the silver liquid sliding down the lower half of the mirror, and then he looks up into soft, hungry eyes and thinks that maybe he loves him.


End file.
